The match kicked off after the national anthems. Barry didn’t know the words to the United Kid-Dom one, but it had a very grand tune, and he could just about make out the lyrics that all his teammates (and the crowd) were singing:
We are the United Kid-Dom
Oh yes we are
Kids can choose their mum and dad
La la la la la la laaaa!
… which seemed a bit on the nose about this world, but at least it was simple enough to allow him to join in the third time round. The Boysnia-Herzogeweeny anthem seemed to be – if Barry’s ears didn’t deceive him – an orchestral version of ‘My Dog’s Surprised by His Own Farts’, but he assumed he must have got that wrong.
There was also an awkward incident before the anthems, when the teams lined up to have their hands shaken by the head of the United Kid-Dom FA, who turned out to be Lord Rader-Wellorff (this, it suddenly struck Barry, might just have been the reason why Jeremy, Teremy, Meremy and all the others had got into the national team…).
When Lord Rader-Wellorff saw Barry in the line-up, he looked shocked, and for a moment it seemed as if he was going to refuse to shake Barry’s hand – like Barry had seen footballers do from time to time in his world. But then he said: “Oh well, let’s let bygones be bygones – eh, Jeremy, Teremy, Meremy, etc., etc.?”
“Da-ad! We’re called Jezza, Tezza, Mezza, etc., etc. here!”
“Oh. Sorry, Jezza, Tezza, Mezza, etc., etc.”
And he shook Barry’s hand.
Lionel Tidy kicked off and passed the ball to Jezza, who passed it back to Lionel, who ran forward. Barry tried running on the wing alongside him, but then he realised that he was exhausted. Derek and Emily’s warm-up had completely tired him out.
OK, thought Barry, I’ll just hang back for the first few minutes, to give myself some time to recover. So he stopped running and, for about six minutes, he just watched, hardly moving from the halfway line. The United Kid-Dom team seemed to be in control, with Lionel dominating most of the play around the Boysnia-Herzogeweeny area. But the Boysnia-Herzogeweenians were good defenders, and so far no one had managed to get a shot in on their goal. Then Barry heard a shout.
“Oy!”
He turned. Big Col was standing on the touchline.
“What are you doing, Bazza? Get up there!! We need you!”
“I will!” said Barry. “I’m just waiting till I recover from the warm-up!” He said this while staring at Derek and Emily Fwahm!, who were standing on either side of Big Col. The whole thing looked like some kind of advert for a slimming programme.
“What do you mean?!” said Derek. “That was our special easy warm-up!”
“And, more importantly,” shouted Big Col, “there’s only one minute left to play!!”
“Pardon?” said Barry. He looked up at the big electric clock hanging above the crowd behind the goal. “We’ve only been playing for six minutes.”
“Yes!” said Big Col. He turned to Derek and Emily. “I thought you told me he’d played football before?”
“He did tell us that, Big Col!” said Emily.
“Well then, why doesn’t he know that a football match is SEVEN MINUTES LONG?!”
Barry frowned. “Seven minutes? That’s ridiculous!”
“Oh, and how long should it be, clever clogs?” said Big Col.
“Ninety minutes!”
Big Col and Derek and Emily looked at each other. “Hoor-hoor! Hoor-hoor! Hoor-hoor!” they all went, holding on to each other. “Ninety minutes!”
“I’d like to see anyone last ninety minutes after one of our warm-ups!” said Emily, wiping away a tear.
“Anyway,” said Big Col, breaking out of it, “never mind about that nonsense. Now you’ve only got forty-five seconds left!”
“There might be injury time, chief!” said Derek.
“Only about two and a half seconds,” said Big Col, shaking his head. “And we need a goal! So get down there!”
Barry looked over. Lionel Tidy had the ball by the corner flag, hemmed in by three defenders. The referee was checking his watch. There was no time to argue about the stupidness of matches being seven minutes long. He started running.
It really was a long way from the centre line to the penalty area on a proper football pitch. Barry had never thought about it before. Sometimes, when he was watching football on TV with his dad, and Chelsea (who they supported) were playing, his dad would shout at a player for not chasing after the ball fast enough, and Barry would join in, shouting, “Slowcoach!” or “Come on, what’s the matter with you?” But, as his heart started to pump faster and his legs began to ache, Barry Bennett thought that he would never shout things like that ever again. In fact, he reckoned he might shout, “Well done for getting there at all!” whatever speed they were running at.
Lionel Tidy still seemed a long way away and the clock was ticking down. Eventually, Barry was within calling range of the United Kid-Dom’s great star.
“Lionel!!” he shouted. He wasn’t sure Lionel could hear as Barry was on the penalty spot and Lionel had only come in a little way from the touchline, still closely marked. Also, Barry was so tired by now, his voice came out as a tiny breathless squeak. But Lionel looked up. Barry shouted again.
“On my head!” he said. “Cross it!”
Squeak squeak squeak was how his own voice sounded to Barry. Too quiet – there was no chance Lionel could make out what he was saying. He glanced up. The clock said 6.43. Which meant there were seventeen seconds left.
“Tidy! CAN YOU NOT KNOCK IT?!” shouted Barry as loud as he could. He jumped up and down to try and make his intentions clearer, and also to make himself seen above the heads of the Boysnia Herzogeweenian defenders. Which made him even more tired. He didn’t know when he’d ever felt so tired.
Lionel looked over and then, as if someone had pushed a button somewhere on his body, sprang into action. He whirled round, like a spinning top, creating what seemed like a little hurricane at his feet, which the ball got caught up in. It rose in the air and then Lionel threw himself horizontally at it, like he was lying on a magic carpet, with one foot out. That foot connected beautifully with the ball – bang! – and it sailed off the wing towards the penalty area.
Barry was still jumping up and down. He watched as the ball curved through the air. Through a mist of exhaustion, he could hear voices.
“Bazza! Bazza! THAT’S ALL YOURS!! EVERY TIME!!” That was Big Col.
“Breathe, Barry, breathe!!”
That was Emily Fwahm!
“Remember to bend your legs as you land!!” That was Derek Fwahm!
“Barry!” He wasn’t sure who that was. It was a female voice: someone in the crowd. But he’d heard it somewhere before.
“You can do it, Barry!” He wasn’t sure who that was either. A male voice nearby. That he’d also heard before.
The ball was a few metres away now. He had to leap high, like a salmon, to get over the big Boysnia-Herzogeweenian defenders. He didn’t want to look away, but for a second he did; and there they were in the crowd again: the mysterious man and woman, looking at him, with concern and hope. And the something else that Barry couldn’t quite name.
He didn’t have time to think about what that might be, though, because he needed to turn his head back towards the ball. He swung his neck as it came flying in from his right-hand side and fwahm! It flew off his forehead exactly as it was supposed to, towards the goal, towards what his dad called the postage stamp…
He saw the Boysnia-Herzogeweenian keeper jump towards it. He saw him stretch his fingers. But then Barry starting falling down again, having reached the highest point of his jump.
And, as he fell, he looked up, trying to see the ball; but all he could see was that Wobbly Stadium was indeed wobbling.
That everything was wobbling: the goals, the crowd, the defenders, the referee, even the enormous digital clock. Even the roar of the crowd as the ball went in, or was saved, he couldn’t tell, sounded all wobbly. Perhaps it was one of those times when, like Emily Fwahm! had said, there were too many people in the stadium, he thought, just before he fell on the ground, fast asleep.